Someone called for wine, and the servants hurried away, returning with carafes and glasses, filling them to the brim and passing them around.
“What about music?” Mael asked. “Is there… Do you have music?”
“We shall have music,” Harun roared, and the company cheered.
Melakis left the room, returning with a pair of cases, which he opened to reveal two Alvus wood violins. He claimed one, and Aphora lifted the other. They busied themselves stroking rosin down the bows, plucking the strings, and then, without saying a word, they raised the instruments to their chins and began to play, as though they’d only been waiting for the opportunity.
Sorrow had never heard live music before in her life, only ever the songs Rasmus had hummed to her, and she froze as the voice-like melodies of the twin violins filled the room. Someone handed Sorrow a glass of wine and she took it, though didn’t drink, too transfixed by the sound. She could feel it, she realized, across her diaphragm and in her chest; every leap and trill of it became part of her. The melody was happy, she could recognize that. Joyful and rousing, and there was dancing, real dancing.
She wondered if Rhannon had folk songs. She’d have to find out. Irris would know where to look. She could bring them back, they could hold—
She stopped herself as she remembered she wouldn’t be the one bringing them back now. It would be him.
She scowled as Mael bowed to Irris, who looked horrified, but took his arm and allowed him to sweep her in small circles around the tables. Samad shrugged at Kaspira, and the two took up a stiff, formal posture, arms rigid, as they began to move. Harun looked at Sorrow, then held out a hand to Tuva, who tried to demur, but Harun wouldn’t accept her refusal. He pulled her into an awkward stance and began to chase his son around the room.
No one asked Sorrow to dance.
It was the kind of party Rasmus had told her broke out in Rhylla all the time. Almost every time a group gathered, for whatever reason, at some point a violin would be brought out, and as though the music was a spell, the people would be compelled to dance and to revel. But not her. It was as if no one could see her.
She stood still in a room that moved and swayed and celebrated, but she might as well have been a ghost. The dancers whirled around her, the music played, and the others steadily drank, while she remained the eye of the storm.
No, someone had seen her.
“Living up to your namesake?” a voice hissed wetly in her ear, and she turned to find a bleary-eyed Balthasar lolling next to her.
She swallowed her reply, forcing herself to remain calm. Grandmama always said you couldn’t argue with drunks or addicts, and the Graces knew she’d learned that lesson well enough over the last four months.
But it seemed Balthasar wasn’t planning to leave without a fight.
“I won’t forgive you for locking me away,” he said. “I won’t ever forget it. And I won’t let you forget it either.”
Sorrow bit her tongue, fighting the urge to tell him to get the hell away from her as she subtly scanned the room for help. Bayrum was sitting, seemingly chatting amiably with Kaspira while the others danced. There was no sign of Charon, and she frowned.
“I don’t know what I’m happiest about.” Balthasar’s voice was softly slurred, and Sorrow’s hold on her temper loosened with every word. “Mael returning, or your play for power being forever thwarted. No, wait. It’s the second one. I don’t care if he isn’t the real thing. He’ll do. Because he means I don’t have to pretend to obey some uppity little bitch who should have died with her mother.”
Sorrow’s fury detonated, and she slapped him.
The whip-crack sound of her palm meeting his cheek was lost in the frenzy of the music, and no one noticed the warden of the South Marches stumble under the force of the blow. Sorrow’s chest was heaving as she sucked in breath after breath, her palm stinging from the slap. She watched him rub his cheek in wonder, before vicious eyes met hers, and she recoiled as his arm began to rise, fist clenched, to return the blow. But then he mastered himself, and took a step back.
“I won’t be the only one rejoicing that the Age of Sorrow ended before it could begin,” he said, no longer sounding drunk at all.
He bowed to her, smirking, and turned, taking a new glass from a tray a servant was holding and staggering away. Sorrow realized she was shaking, her entire body trembling through shock and fright. She really thought he’d meant to harm her. And who would have stopped him?
The servant approached Sorrow, and she saw it was Shenai, eyes wide with concern. She’d seen everything.
“Are you all right, Miss Ventaxis?” she asked.
“Fine,” Sorrow lied, though the tremor in her voice betrayed her. She took a glass from the tray and drained it, before saying, “Did you see where Lord Day went?”
“He left after the music started, miss.”
“Thank you,” Sorrow said.
“Can I… Do you need anything?” Shenai asked.
Sorrow shook her head, not trusting herself to speak again.
The music stopped then, and Shenai slipped away, ready to replenish glasses. Melakis and Aphora exchanged a glance, and then Aphora offered the violin out to Mael as Melakis offered his to Vespus. Mael smiled, and released Irris with a bow.
His fingers curled around the neck with ease as he tucked the body between his chest and jaw, and drew the bow across it. His song was softer, still happy, but a purer kind than the hedonistic glee Melakis and Aphora played with. Vespus matched him, carving out a melody to complement the song, and it was clear they’d played together before, often. The people gathered around them, no longer dancing or raucous, watching the two men play.
Irris came to join Sorrow, her cheeks flushed, a light sheen of sweat at her brow. “Where is my father?” she asked.
Sorrow gathered the final dregs of her composure together. “He left, apparently. When the music started.”
There was still an edge to her voice, and Irris frowned. “Are you all right?”
Sorrow didn’t want to tell her what had happened with Balthasar while she’d been dancing, nor how it had left her feeling dirty somehow. Tainted. Instead she tried for sarcasm, but the words sounded sour instead of wry. “How could I not be? My brother is returned from the dead, and my father is sober for the first time in almost two years. I’m overflowing with joy.”
“Row…”
“Look at them all.” She nodded to where everyone, even Bayrum and Tuva, stood watching the boy play violin. “This time yesterday they were at each other’s throats. And now they’re dancing, and I’m over here, watching them.”
Whatever Irris was about to say was lost as the chancellor approached them and Sorrow froze. It had been years since she’d spoken to a sober Harun, and she had no idea how much of their other encounters he remembered. Whether he knew she’d drugged him. Shouted at him. Threatened him.
“Miss Day. Daughter.”
Irris bowed, as Sorrow said, “Father,” mimicking his tone.
Not that he noticed.
“I’d like to speak to my daughter, if I may,” he addressed Irris.
“Of course, Your Excellency.” She dipped her head respectfully and left them, Sorrow watching her as she made her way out of the dining room, probably to find Charon.
Harun moved to stand beside Sorrow, a hand span between them, watching Mael and Vespus play. He said nothing, keeping his attention on the boy, and as the silence stretched Sorrow’s pulse began to race as she waited for him to say something, anything.
“Mael said I should speak to you,” he said finally. “He seems to think I owe you an…” He paused. “Explanation,” he said. “For how things have been.”
How things have been? Rasmus’s voice was back, and outraged, but Sorrow shushed him, and forced herself to focus on her father’s words.
“He said you, along with Charon and the Jedenvat, had been doing your best to keep things together, especially since my mother died.”
“Well, you don’t need to concern yourself with it any more,” he said. “Mael is here now.”
He walked away, leaving her standing there, braced against the wall for support as his words stabbed into her, over and over.
That was it? Was that her thanks? she wondered. After eighteen years of neglect, of living under the cloud he created, of growing up in a country that was a living graveyard. Less than forty-eight hours ago he’d been face down in a pile of drugs, out of his mind on them, and this was her thanks? For keeping the country going, and covering for him, hiding his addiction, this was all she deserved?
He hadn’t even called her by her name, she realized. He’d called her “daughter”.
She only knew her hands were curled into fists when the pain from her nails against the flesh of her palms broke through the haze of hurt and rage. She was shaking, her breathing shallow, sweat dripping down her back from the effort it was taking to not hurl herself after him. Sorrow focused on the pain, trying to centre herself. Bayrum, now talking to Melakis, shot her a concerned glance, but she shook her head, not trusting herself to stay in control if anything broke the fragile hold she had over her temper. She watched as Harun stepped forward to embrace his son again. It was as though he couldn’t touch the boy enough. She hated him. She hated him.
“I wish you’d died,” she whispered to herself as the song ended and Harun stepped forward to embrace his son. “I wish you were dead.” In the moment she wasn’t sure which of them she meant.
Somewhere beyond the room a clock began to chime, and she counted the bells, using them to bring her breathing back to normal. At the twelfth bell, she released a long sigh. A new day.
Sorrow realized with a start that it was her birthday. She’d been born two days after the accident. She was eighteen. She looked over to what was left of her family – her father and so-called brother, standing arm in arm, accepting congratulations and joy from everyone.
Yearning for Rasmus overwhelmed her, and she had to lean against the wall to stop from sinking to the ground. If he’d been there he would have danced with her; he would have fought to suppress a gleeful smile when she’d slapped Balthasar. He would be with her now, wishing her a happy birthday, telling her he’d come to her rooms, that he couldn’t wait to hold her.
A lump formed in her throat then as she understood what she’d lost. And it was all for nothing, for now Mael had returned she wasn’t needed. Her father had seemingly rallied, and if he faded again Mael was here to be chancellor. She closed her eyes, unable to stomach seeing them.
Movement at her side a moment later made them fly open.
Mael was standing beside her.
She looked at him, then around the room. Melakis had taken up the violin again, and he and Vespus were playing something muted, as the Jedenvat milled around and tried to pretend they weren’t watching Sorrow and Mael. Balthasar closed in on Harun and began to talk, though Harun kept glancing back at his children, his envy of Sorrow evident in his sharp gaze.
“Why are you over here? Why don’t you join in?” Mael asked. “You’re not happy, are you?”
“I’m tired,” Sorrow said. “The last couple of days have been eventful.”
He nodded, accepting it. “Did he talk to you?” Mael turned, leaning against the wall with his shoulder so he could face her.
Sorrow remained where she was, facing out into the room. “He did. He said you were here now and I didn’t need to concern myself with Rhannon any more.”
Mael made a soft click with his tongue. “I didn’t mean for him to say that.”
Sorrow turned. She looked at him, this new-old brother, whose face she recognized from a lifetime of paintings. “What did you mean for him to say?”
“Just … that you don’t have to do this alone any more. You don’t have to be responsible for all of it.” He swallowed. “I know that to you Lincel is a traitor, but to me she was a lifeline. To me she was a link to my sister, and my father; every bird she sent was a gift. She was the one who told me about both of you, and Grandmother too.” Sorrow flinched at the mention of her beloved grandmama. “She told me how much the Dowager First Lady did to lessen the harshness of our father’s rule. And how you tried to fill her place after she died. I wish I could have known her.”
Sorrow met his gaze levelly. His eyes were the same brown as hers. As their father’s.
Everyone in Rhannon has dark eyes. So what? Sorrow shook her head and tried to concentrate.
Mael turned to where Harun was watching them. “He promised no more Lamentia. He sent a bird, while I was in the room, to Istevar, asking for his chambers to be stripped and cleaned, and for any trace of the drug to be destroyed. He wants to start again. He knows it will be hard, and that breaking the addiction won’t be easy, but he says he wants to try. For us.”
“For you.”
“Sorrow.” Mael’s eyes were sad. “He’s so ashamed of the way he’s treated you.”
“Ashamed?” She couldn’t keep the disbelief from her voice. “You think he’s ashamed?”
“That’s why he can’t look at you, or talk to you. He told me so. He’s embarrassed by how badly he’s let you down.”
Sorrow blinked. “That’s his excuse for his behaviour?”
Mael nodded earnestly. “He knows he’s not been the father you deserve and it pains him to have let you down so badly, to have his young daughter look after him. He told me of the times you’d gone to him, cleaned him up after one of his … episodes and cared for him. And how he wept once you’d gone, wept for what he was doing to you. But he promised me he would make it up to you and we’d be a true family.”
Sorrow swallowed.
“He must have woven quite the story if you believe that anything he told you was true,” she said bitterly. “But I have seventeen – no, eighteen – years of experience that has taught me otherwise. Which you don’t,” she added, surprised at herself.
A look of hurt crossed Mael’s face. “I don’t expect you to forgive him straight away,” he said stiffly. “And I don’t expect you to believe or even like me, just like that, either; in fact, I’d be disappointed if you did. But things are going to be different now. You’ll see.” He took her hand before she could stop him and raised it to his mouth, kissing it. “Like I said, we’re going to be a family. I look forward to getting to know you both.”
He bowed then, and began to back away. “Oh, and, Sorrow? Many happy returns.”
He turned on his heel and walked back to the others, who welcomed him with cheers.
As Harun reached to embrace him once more, she studied both of their faces. Harun’s beard made it difficult, but there was no superficial resemblance between them; where Harun’s nose was slightly hooked, Mael’s was sloped. And where Mael’s cheekbones were high and sharp, Harun’s were flat, even in his thin face. Of course, it might be the gap in age that caused the difference.
Or it might not…
Sorrow had had enough – enough of watching, enough of thinking. She beckoned Shenai back to her and took a glass of wine from the tray, draining it in one. She wiped her mouth savagely with her sleeve, and replaced the glass with force. Nodding at the bewildered servant girl, she left, stalking past the group who’d now moved to sit around a table as though in their own personal inn, and left them behind.
Adrenaline coursed through her and she picked up her pace, running through the palace, startling the guards on the doors, who were almost too slow to open them for her. When she arrived back at her rooms she dismissed Shevela, who’d been waiting for her, and threw herself down on to the bed. Sorrow grabbed one of the pillows and screamed into it, holding it against her face as she shrieked, over and over, wordless cries, until her throat and lungs burned. She threw the pillow down and lifted it again, punching and pummelling it; it was Balthasar, and Samad, and Kaspira, and Lincel. It was Vespus, and Harun, and Mael. It was even Ras
mus, who’d left her, even though he’d had to.
When the pillow exploded suddenly, filling the air with feathers, Sorrow stopped. She collapsed on to her back and watched the white down fall around her, on her. She remembered Rasmus telling her about the weather in the northern mountains of Rhylla, and how his people would attach wooden slats to their feet and slide down its icy slopes for fun. She closed her eyes, and let the feathers blanket her like snow.
She woke to screaming.
She sat up immediately, sending the feathers flying, and was already on her feet when the door to her bedroom was thrown open. She braced to attack, relaxing only slightly when she saw Irris there.
Her friend stood, momentarily silenced by the feathers swirling around the room.
“What is it?” Sorrow gasped.
“Your father.” Irris stared at her, her eyes wide and frightened. “It’s your father, Sorrow. He’s dead.”
No Constant but Change
Harun had been found collapsed on his bedroom floor by his valet. On the dresser was a ragged pile of Lamentia, a used piece of card rolled into a tube beside it. It was obvious what had caused his death.
By the time Sorrow arrived, still dressed in the clothes she’d been wearing the day before, he’d been moved to his bed to give him a little dignity, his eyes closed, his hands resting on his sunken chest. The curtains had been drawn, and the lamps at the wall lit, and it was by this dim light, eerily reminiscent of his rooms at the Winter Palace, that Sorrow approached the bed to see her father.
He too was still wearing the outfit he’d worn to the impromptu party, and against his waxy skin the colours were hideous, the tunic marked with dark stains. Though someone had been thoughtful enough to clean his face, she could see dark flakes of blood by one nostril, and a smear of something white and crusted, making a trail from his eye. She turned away, remembering Alyssa.
She’d been in the room for a few seconds before others began to arrive in exactly the same manner she had, rushing to the room and halting on the threshold as though an invisible door stopped them, until their eyes found the corpse. Then they filed in, one by one, taking a spot around the bed. Samad, Kaspira, Bayrum, Balthasar: the entire Jedenvat came. They made space for Charon’s chair when he arrived, but no one spoke, their heads bowed and hands clasped reflexively. The fact that no one was crying spoke volumes to Sorrow. The fact no one expected her to cry said the same thing.
State of Sorrow Page 15
